Railroading

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INCLUDES THE FOLLOWING STORIES:

Railroading – I saw a picture of a hundred or more people shoveling waist-deep snow behind a passenger train in the Columbia River Gorge on a high school field trip in the 1960s to the Portland Art Museum. A puff of black smoke rose from the steam engine on the east end of the train while the workforce labored on the west end. I did not know how far those men shoveled before the train could move or if the rescue was suspended until the snow melted, nor could I see what lay ahead for me thirty years later.

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…George’s reply was scratchy and indiscernible to us. The yard-master replied, “You’re breaking up, Amtrak, but I think you said you are stopped west of a snowdrift just east of Multnomah Falls and that it’s higher than the train. Is that right?” Static followed before Fred replied, “Okay. You can’t proceed east through the snow drift, and the track foreman in charge of a backhoe at Multnomah Falls says the parking lot is filling with water and soon will be over the rail. Is that right?” After more radio static, Fred added, “I understand the backhoe can’t remove the ice dam under the railroad bridge. Is that right?” After another scratchy radio transmission, the yardmaster responded, “Okay. I understand the track foreman says a big snowdrift just crossed the tracks between the falls and Benson State Park, which blocks you between drifts. Is that correct?” After another scratchy response, Fred said, “Stand by, Amtrak, while I call the office.”

“Ron, those managers in the office won’t know what to do. They’ll waste time figuring out how to resolve the situation until eventually following operating rules that don’t outline proper procedures for something like this. We should go pull them out.”

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The Bridge – I drove through the black night during the stillness preceding every dawn. The headlights pulled the car down the well-worn interstate highway on a three-hour drive to take my son on our first fishing trip. I had promoted this activity to him as a way of learning about the outdoors and to hopefully help create wonderful camping and fishing memories. I had been fortunate to have those experiences during my youth and hoped my son could make his own. I was excited about introducing this new activity as another way to hear everything an eight-year-old boy had on his mind. At the same time, I wondered how being alone with him instead of our customary visitation diversions, like the park or a ball game, could evolve into a different relationship between us.

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Zachary – Zachary understood children. He played with them and followed their wishes. He didn’t jump on their beds in the morning and instead collapsed with a plop in their bedroom to become an immovable mass right where they had to put their feet when their sleepy eyes searched for the floor. Then, he dutifully followed them into the kitchen for cereal and lay between them as they ate. His diligent attentiveness was rewarded with leftover sugary milk he quickly lapped from hand-held bowls. He wouldn’t lie on my lap if the children were home, but when I insisted, he came to me with a quick lick on my hand before going to lie at the feet of one of them. He snuck into their room and lay on their beds when they were gone.

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The Fixer-upper is a humble account of what seems like a life-time of home remodeling.

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A Bowl of Ice Cream is about making each day better than the last.